


Cards Pro-Humiliation

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Anxious Castiel, Best Friends, Cards Against Humanity, Caring Dean, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, House Party, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Openly Bisexual Dean, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 12:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5708398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I came in here because I’m worried about you. Not because of what some stupid card says.”<br/>Cas lifts his head. “B-but that stupid card, it said—”<br/>“I know what it said, Cas."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cards Pro-Humiliation

“Seriously? We’re playing _that_ game? Ya’ll need—”

“Hannah, if you shove your boyfriend down our throats one more time in the non-sexy way, I will personally baptize you.”               

“Speak for yourself, _Dean,”_ Hannah sneers, stretching out his first name like she’s worthily breaking the third commandment. She reaches over the table to hover her hand just over Cas’s shoulder. “I know Castiel here believes in the unwavering power of our Lord and Savior as much as I do.”

“Actually, I sort of stopped believing over a year ago.”

The black deck of cards Dean is shuffling still in two front-facing upward dogs as silence gains the VIP access into the group’s get-together. Hannah’s hilted expression softens into regret. Knowing how sensitive the topic of absent fathers is to Cas—whose beige trench coat is currently riding up in an attempt to swallow his bedraggled head—Dean fans the cards again.

“Alright, asshats, it’s my house, which means you play by my rules—”

“Which also happen to be _my_ rules, seeing as I live here too, so I start as the czar,” Sam proclaims, snatching the deck out of Dean’s hands. Dean rolls his eyes and turns to face Charlie, Ash, and Benny once his little brother starts shuffling the white deck. “And don’t you pull that literal tongue-in-cheek move. We all know who played a public round of Seven Minutes with Aaron Bass.”

Charlie’s mouth flops open: “Aaron Bass, your _gay stalker?”_

“He wasn’t gay until I got ahold of him,” Dean says, winking. Everyone bursts into laughter—excluding party-pooper Hannah, but whatever, she’s Cas’s friend anyway.

“Sorry guys, I’m going to have to miss this round in favor of my stomach. Does anyone want anything from Biggerson’s? Dean?” Cas pauses, eyes swiping over Dean with a far hungrier look than anything wrapped in aluminum foil. “Turducken Sandwich, light on the mayo, extra sauce, and hold the lettuce and tomatoes for Sam’s lunch tomorrow?”

Sam throws his head back. “What the f—”

“Cas,” Dean says, raising his arms in praise of the human Simba, “a man after my own heart.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Hannah mutters as Cas strolls out the door. Dean narrows his eyes in question before Sam clears his throat and commences the game.

***

Dean doesn’t know how it happened. One minute he’s playing Bananas to Bananas _,_ the next he’s holding onto his _cum_ quats for dear life.

Cas is sitting hunched over the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. A river of oppressed sunlight spills through his blinds and over his _Star Wars_ comforter, hitting Cas’s back as a sharp hiccup skydives his spine. If he notices Dean walking in, he doesn’t say anything short of the nondescript, monosyllabic words he’s cursing under his breath.

“Cas?” he asks tentatively. That’s the thing about their friendship up until now—nothing’s ever been tentative, notwithstanding Cas’s condition. Every plan, every conversation, every _laugh,_ has always been confident. Hell, Cas came out to him over a duel round of Fallout 3.

Cas doesn’t move, but he says, albeit muffled and lamely, “Go away.”

“This is my house, Cas. If I go any further away, I’ll be in a state that actually accepts gay marriage.”

Cas sniffles through a chuckle, but… well, _sniffles_ nonetheless. Dean closes the door and treads the floor like he would a tomb crawling with cobra snakes.

Cas is the mother of them. He remembers how long it took him to be okay with hugging Dean. So instead of crowding close to his side, he stands a respective foot away and crouches in front of him, hands resting on his knees. “Talk to me.”

“You k-know what’s wrong, Dean,” Cas sputters like someone stranded out at sea in the middle of January with nothing but a lifejacket and hypothermia. “You wouldn’t have come in here otherwise.”

“That’s not true, Cas, and you know it.”

“I-I shouldn’t have—I should’ve just picked a different c-card.”

“Hey, listen,” Dean stresses, eyes searching Cas’s sapphire ones like a camera slowly coming into focus. “You’re my best friend, alright? I came in here because I’m worried about you. Not because of what some stupid card says.”

Cas lifts his head. “B-but that stupid card, it said—”

“I know what it said, Cas,” Dean reassures, his mind screaming to touch Cas somewhere, anywhere that will ease his distress just a little, so he tucks his hands between his legs. “Your feelings are just as valid as anyone else’s in that room, okay?”

And now they’re stuck in a shitty _Fault in Our Stars_ remake because Cas replies, “Okay.” Then he pushes back his hair with a half-hearted chuckle, “Sorry, I guess I’m just a sore loser.”

“What makes you say that?”

Cas laughs again, only this time it’s curtailed by an incredulous scoff, “Well, I mean you obviously didn’t pick _my_ card as the winning one.”

“But I did,” Dean says, nodding enthusiastically in a desperate attempt to shake the blush from his cheeks, “pick your card, I mean. It was no competition, really. Ash and Charlie always go for the raunchy cards; Hannah and Sam try to keep it clean… Benny had a good one, but yours, well… I guess you could say it was a good match for my card.”

Cas looks like he’s about to flood the Mississippi. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying _I love you, too,_ you dipshit _,”_ Dean laughs, lending out his hand. “Can I kiss you?”

Cas nods just as enthusiastically as he allows his hand, now woven with Dean’s, to be brought to his face with a kiss Dean smiles too hard into to be labeled such.

“I’ll always pick you, Cas,” he whispers into his mouth.

Like a freshly seeded garden after a rainstorm, Dean’s planting something there. With just one chaste kiss, he’s breathing life into a promise—a lifetime supply of Turducken sandwiches and board games. And none of it is tentative.

* * *

 

_What did the pizza man say to the babysitter?_

**The winning card:**

_I love you, you ass._

* * *

 


End file.
